The Botticelli Secret - By Marina Fiorato Page 0,23
only a whore—a good one, but still a whore—and they would sooner kill me than take the chance that I was lying. Plus, I had seemingly passed on my knowledge to another, a man of God, who was not as alone in the world as I. I sat down, heavily, before the picture. “All right” I said. “Then how are we to solve this puzzle?”
The monk began to pace behind me again, his robes whispering on the stone floor, his feet beating time. “I think our pursuers believe that you know something about Botticelli’s painting. About the Primavera. That you saw something when you were there that day.”
“But I didn’t!”
“So you say. But from what you told me, Botticelli became—somewhat agitated—when you were sitting for him.”
My mouth curled at the understatement. “That’s true.”
“I think you saw something in the room, or in the painting, and referred to it unknowingly.”
“There was nothing in the room.”
“Then it must have been the painting.”
“But the painting is still there, we don’t have the real thing. It’s bigger than a warship’s sail.”
Brother Guido impatiently tapped at the parchment I’d flattened on the table. “Yes, but this, signorina, is a cartone, a perfect miniature copy of the panel that Signor Botticelli is painting. The faint grid that is drawn across the figures is to assist the transfer from this small parchment to the vast space on the panel. The artist will carefully measure and study what each square contains, and then transfer the information to a larger square which he will have mapped out on the wall. You see?”
I did see. I remembered from Botticelli’s studio a net of strings stretched across the vast panel. And told Brother Guido of them. He nodded. “Yes. Sometimes the grids of ropes are stretched across a frame, and then candles lit behind, so that the shadow of a grid is thrown onto a wall. Artists have different ways of working, but the principles are the same.”
I tired abruptly of my art lesson. “All very interesting, and I’m sure you have a point.”
“It’s this. What we have here is an exact replica of the Prima-vera, exactly as it will look on the final panel, down to the smallest detail. The only item missing from the inventory is your face, and we have the original here.” The ghost of a smile. “I’m saying that whatever Botticelli is hiding in his painting, whatever allegory or code he has placed within it, is within this one too.”
I began to see.
“So, we need to figure out what the message is, and that is how we may get ahead of the game.”
I took issue with the brother’s choice of words. I didn’t think the events of the last day seemed much like a game, nor did I see how we could figure out what the painting “meant.” But as my options were narrowing, I decided to humor the fellow. He certainly seemed enthusiastic, and not at all afraid—he was excited by the challenge and looked almost as triumphant as if he had solved it already, his handsome face aglow in the candlelight. Fucking intellectuals.
“We have a few hours before mass, and then we must go from here. So let us begin.”
We transferred the painting to the floor, and I brought the candle from my cell. Darkness thickened outside as we studied the painting in its twin circles of light. It was incredibly detailed, and crowded with figures, and I knew not where to begin.
Brother Guido echoed my thoughts. “Let’s begin with the simplest aspects, and we will move to the imagery and allegory in due course.”
I cleared my throat in an attempt to conceal the fact that I did not know what at least two of his words meant. “Yes, yes, let’s do that.”
A wave of his hand invited me to begin.
I swallowed, hoping I would not appear too ignorant. “Well, there are eight figures. Nine, if you include the little flying dwarf.”
“Cupid. Eight adult figures and a cupid. Good.”
His praise encouraged me. “There are two men and the rest are women.”
“Six females and two males. Good.”
This was easy. “One of the men is a . . . blue tree goblin.”
He snorted with laughter and turned it, too late, into a cough. “Forgive me. A what?”
I was crushed after my good beginning. “He looks like a tree goblin,” I protested huffily, pointing to the figure on the far right of the painting. “He’s blue. And he has wings, and he’s in the trees.”